To Be Expected
by EnjolrasForever
Summary: Henry finally gives in to his desires and visits a boy-brothel to satisfy his illicit craving. OMC/OMC. Historical, 19th century. Non-graphic non-con, underage. Sad and introspective. First Person.


My heart pounded. My stomach lurched unpleasantly. My nerves were on edge. I fiddled with the index finger of my right glove. The night was darker here, on the outskirts of town, and I felt as if the darkness had seeped into my soul as I stepped up to the stoop of the ramshackle building. Still, I could not tear myself away.

I did not need to knock. Before I could raise my hand, a fat, dirty old man answered the door with a simpering smile, bowing obsequiously. He was a vile creature. He had rotten teeth and a sweaty, pallid face; his stench masked by cheap perfume, and his face coated in makeup. His collar, surely once white, was stained yellow with tobacco and filth, but he was dressed to the nines in a tattered get-up that would have been the height of fashion twenty years prior. He looked as if he had crawled out of the scum of the sewer – an absolute slug among men. But, really, was I any better?

"Come in, come in," the slug of a man rasped with a sickening smile. "What can I do for you tonight, good sir?" I stepped in. He closed the door behind us.

I gave my surroundings a cursory examination. It seemed the average foyer, with a flight of stairs directly behind the front door and a hallway on the right, leading to the back of the house, dotted with closed doors. The mustard paint was peeling, and the floors were bare. The air was smoky, and heavy with scent. There was no one in sight, but I knew they were there. Behind these doors, and up those stairs, there were prisoners. And there were jailers, like me. As if to remind me of this fact, I heard a muffled scream directly above my head. The hair stood up on my arms, but I could not turn back. Not now. Not after so long.

The slug of a man spoke once more, grinning maniacally with his vomitous black stubs of teeth. "Tell me, sir, what would please you?" I must have looked unsure, for his eyes lit in understanding. "Ahhhh, but this gentleman is a _new_ customer… Perhaps you do not _know_ what you want."

I nodded stiffly, unable to make eye contact. "Very well, good sir, let me show you our… _fine_ selection."

The slug man opened the door directly to our right with another ridiculous bow, and I followed him leadenly into the room.

It was not as horrifying as I had thought it would be. The parlor was opulently decorated, to the point of tackiness. All of the furniture was red velvet, and the floor was plushly carpeted to match. Voluminous curtains veiled the windows. No one could look out, and no one could look in. But there were no children in cages, screaming to be let out. The lads seemed perfectly relaxed. All were heavily rouged and scantily clad, but they did not appear to mind. The air hung heavy with smoke from a long pipe being passed around by several young things. Too young. And they were not smoking tobacco. No, it was opium in the air.

As I entered, a few stirred from where they had been sleeping, in the corner. Two boys were lounging on a large chaise, sharing a glass of wine. They eyed me from beneath their alcohol-thickened lids. A redheaded child, no more than ten, fluttered his lashes at me, as he had been taught, and I felt hot rage course through my veins. I had been wrong. They _were_ in cages. In their eyes, one could see the iron bars on the windows to their souls. They were imprisoned by their situation in life. And I – and those like me – perpetuated their enslavement. I felt bile rise in my throat, and the slug spoke again.

"Are any to your liking, sir? Come, come, sit down." I veritably collapsed into the armchair offered. My head was spinning. I could no longer stand.

"Didier, my darling, come and give the nice young gentleman a drink." He glanced at my wan face and said, efficiently, "Whiskey, I think."

A tall blonde boy of about fifteen stood gracefully and swayed over to the liquor cabinet. After pouring a tumbler of the amber liquid, he fixed his eyes on me, and sauntered closer. I stared in return. When he proffered the crystal tumbler, I took the drink without breaking my gaze. He settled himself at my feet, leaning his golden head against the cushion of the chair, tantalizingly close to my thigh. He looked coyly up at me with his blue, blue eyes. My breath quickened, and I sipped my whiskey.

I could not deny that he was lovely. I could not deny, either, that I had come to this place completely aware of what would happen. I knew how it was. I knew they were forced. And I had come anyway.

It was just that – I had this aching, burning _desire_ – a desire that I could not shake. Ever since I was a youth myself I had had a craving for this. I wanted… oh, how I_ wanted_ a boy. A beautiful boy, fair and perfect. It had become an ever-present distraction with me. But it was when I began to lust after every pretty young thing I saw – and these were perfectly respectable young men in my circle of society – that I knew something had to be done.

Yes, I needed this. I needed to find relief at last – needed to scratch the itch that had driven me mad for a decade. Never had I indulged… No, not even in a woman… So I decided that doing this would do more good than harm. I would be neither the first nor the last to abuse an unwilling youth, after all. One more would not make a difference.

Still, being there, I reconsidered. I could see now, with my own eyes, the horror of it all. Didier had a multitude of fresh purple bruises marring his bare throat. I abhorred the thought of how it had happened – I could not bear to dwell on what the boy must have felt as he had let a stranger do that to him, only because he was too poor to refuse. Even worse was the thought that he had perhaps felt nothing at all, desensitized by years of suffering. I was disgusted with the world. More so, I was disgusted with myself.

As I braced myself with the tumbler of whiskey, slug man chattered on. He ushered other boys over to me. "This is Sebastian," Slug Man croaked, gesturing to a thirteen-year-old in nothing but lederhosen, with beautiful alabaster skin and long black curls. "And this is Luciano," he introduced a broad-chested, muscular brunette, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old.

All of the boys smiled at me, coyly murmuring "Hello". I was charmed in spite of myself, but I never said a word. I am sure Slug Man thought I was quite touched, but I could not move my tongue. I was frozen in place, unable to bolt, and unable to proceed.

"Would anyone in particular please you, sir?" Slug pressed. It seemed he wished me to choose and have done. He surely had other customers to appease. Presently, I felt that I was required to speak, but no sound could move past the lump in my throat. My eyes darted about in a panic. Everyone in the room stared. Blood rushed to my face. I could not breathe. Then, a pair of blue eyes near my knee caught mine, and a bolt of understanding passed between us.

Didier stood with lazy felinity, and spoke quietly, leaning over me in my chair. "Would you like to join me upstairs?" he asked, with the perfect posh diction of one who had been carefully taught. I nodded numbly, thankful that someone else had made my decision. Didier shared an almost imperceptible look with Slug, then smiled at me, offering his hand. I took it, and stood. I followed him back into the dusty mustard-colored hallway, and up the creaky stairs.

The room was plain. Just white walls and a four-poster. A fire smoldered in the grate, providing the room's only light. Didier closed the door behind us and led me over to the bed. "Sit here," he said, smiling kindly.

He stepped back to stand before me in all of his glory. And, indeed, he was beautiful. Golden locks, cropped to a medium length, curled in wild disarray. His skin was pale and unblemished, but for the bruises about his neck. His nose was straight and thin, and his long white eyelashes were defined with an outline of kohl. His cheeks and lips were more delicately rouged than some of the other boys. Pretty. A long neck stretched down to a fair expanse of lithely muscled chest; and thin fingers tapered to smooth, oval fingernails. His lovely hipbones protruded from the waistband of a pair of Oriental harem trousers, which draped the child's long legs in airy yards of exotic fabric. His delicate, high-arched feet were bare.

"I am Didier. What shall I call you, sir?" the boy began in his high, clear voice, aware that his patron was loathe to take the initiative.

I cleared my throat and spoke, voice cracking after being silent for so long. "Ahem, Henry… S'my name…" I mumbled weakly.

The boy stalked closer to me, slowly kneeling at my feet. Tapping lightly on my knees, he said, "Very well, Henry, what can I do for you this evening?"

"Didier… Can't be your real name, can it, child? What's your name?"

"Oh, dear Henry, I should never lie to you. I promise you – "

"What name did your parents give you?!" I asked, forcefully. The youth looked stricken, and I was immediately sorry. But I was tired of all the lies. I had had enough lies.

"M'name's Johnny," he said with a sigh, slipping out of his accent, and speaking like the west-end Londoner he was. Fear flickered across his face. "God, why'd I go'n tell you tha'? Not s'pposed to."

Seeing the true person behind the façade broke something in me. I stood abruptly. "I can't do this."

The boy grasped my hand from where he knelt. "No, please stay! I can be whatever you would like me to be, sir! Forget that! I can please you!"

"I cannot deliberately harm you."

"I want to, truly I do! You are the most handsome man I have ever met, Henry!"

"You needn't lie." I fumbled for my wallet and pulled out several large notes, laying them on the bed. "Here's for your time." I moved to leave, but Johnny flung his arms around my feet. I looked down, startled, and surprised he would go to such lengths to keep me there.

He looked up at me with a pleading expression in his eyes and said, quietly, "Please, sir, you're a good gent. If you go, he'll think I ain't pleased ya. He … he'll take the rod to me."

He was telling the truth. I could see it in his eyes. I sighed. "Very well, Johnny, I will stay for a while. But I shan't touch you." He relinquished his hold on me, and sat on the bare-planked floor, leaning against the bed frame. After an awkward moment, I sank to the floor beside him. We stared into the fire, slowly burning in the grate. It's glowing coals calmed me, and I felt more at ease than I had in several hours. We were silent for a very long while.

"Why'd ya come 'ere, then?" Johnny asked quietly. He looked at me. "You knew what'd 'appen, dint ya?"

I did not face him – could not. "Yes."

His azure gaze was penetrating. "You're untouched, ain't ya?" he said knowingly. "But you like boys. You wanted a boy."

I was silent for a long moment. "I was confused. I am still confused."

"Hm. I coulda taught ya. You're the first ever came, a virgin. Usually they try the girls first."

I flushed. I could not believe I was sharing the intimate details of my sexuality with a strange boy in a brothel. Then again, half an hour ago I had been fully prepared to share the intimate details of my body with said stranger, so this could not truly have been much of a surprise. It was oddly cathartic. I had never put my desire into words before, and talking on it was a weight off my chest.

"I have never desired a woman."

Johnny peered queerly at me. " 'ow old are ya?"

I shifted to face him at last. "Twenty-three."

He tilted his head to one side and his eyes acquired a vacant look. I had the distinct feeling that he was imagining what it would be like to be twenty-three and a virgin. I shuddered to think of how old he must have been.

We sat in silence for several minutes, and I began to feel extremely uncomfortable. I did not wish to remain in that place any longer.

"How much longer must I stay?"

I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a flash of hurt in his eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. "A while yet. They usually like to play," he said matter-of-factly. It sickened me that he could speak of something so horrid in such a neutral tone.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, as I was wont to do when unsure of myself. "How did you end up in this place?"

Johnny shrugged noncommittally. "The usual way, I sp'ose. Me parents dropped me off 'ere one day so's to pay off a debt. I was eight, I fink. Can't rightly remember."

I was horrified, and he saw this clearly. "Oh, s'not so bad as all that. They train ya n'all, so it weren't till I was ten abouts that I had me first customer."

His blasé attitude towards his living hell stung me deeply. Not for the first time this night, I felt I would vomit. "I – I cannot participate in this," I said faintly, moving to stand.

Johnny grabbed my arm with a fierce expression on his face – almost mocking. It occurred to me that I was as a child in his eyes. He had seen much more of life – of suffering – than I. "And why not, sir?" he asked, viciously sarcastic. "You have already paid me handsomely for my services." I tore my arm from his grasp. "You want me, don't ya?"

"You don't understand!" I cried, distraught. "I didn't expect – "

"Expect wha'?! Tha' we'd be people?! You thought we'd just be nice warm bodies to stick your cock in for a night?"

All blood drained from my face. Yes. On some level, this was exactly what I had expected. A wave of shame and regret washed over me, so that I felt I would drown. Everything that I might have done differently flashed into my mind. I should not have let it be this way. It was never meant to be this way. But, by its very nature, it could not have been otherwise. Stricken, I leaned heavily against the nearest bedpost.

Johnny glanced at me with disinterested disgust and rolled his eyes. "Have it your own way, then. If you want me, have me. If you don't, leave and take your money with ya." The boy snatched the sheaf of banknotes from the coverlet and threw them at my feet, then crossed in front of me to drape himself in lazy invitation across the bed. I wondered, briefly, why he had not simply taken the money and bade me take my leave. It did not occur to me until years later that my ingenuous time wasting had likely been a welcome respite for the child. The moments he had not had to pretend had been pay enough. But I was young, and knew nothing.

My gaze slid from the beautiful youth on the bed to the money at my feet and back again. I considered all I had endured to reach this point, only to slink away in shame, unsatisfied. He _had _offered. Didier had his place in life, and I had mine. I could not save him. I would only be one more.

When I leaned over to kiss him, he smirked in a resigned sort of way. "I thought as much."

I fucked him quickly, with the hot-blooded hurry of youth. When I returned – and I returned many times – it was usually much the same. In all of our dealings, we never exchanged another word, save for grunted instructions and the oaths one flings about in the throes of passion. He taught me well, and sated me, and I moved on with my life; becoming a husband, a father, and a successful broker. But, sometimes, on those long winter evenings filled with bankbooks and dinner parties, "_I thought as much_," would echo through my mind. I had done what was expected of me. Always. And, having done so, I would only ever be "one more".


End file.
